How to articulate a color?

My class let out about an hour early this evening, allowing me to experience the wonder that is twilight. As I left my building, I was struck by how pale the sky appeared . . . such a light blue transitioning to a gentle pink over the museums. The two hues never met, for a nearly colorless band divided the two. All color seemed to drain from the sky while I stood waiting for the bus, the white band ever expanding over the city.

I half-dozed during the ride home, having had only five hours of sleep last night and no longer feeling the need to spend every spare minute in reading or writing something for a class. By the time I got to my bus stop the sky had regained color, but this was not the vapid blue of perhaps half an hour earlier. No. This was a rich, intense blue-just-tinged-with-green, vibrant in its surprising clarity. This wonderful hue did not have the same coolness typically associated with blue, yet neither could it be said to convey the idea of warmth. More accurately perhaps, it could be said to have depth; one could easily get lost in such a sky as this.

I never denied my nerdiness

Today I chose to spend the afternoon at the Carnegie Museums of Art and Natural History. I did this because the day was grey and damp and because, well, it's the end of the semester, so I actually had the time to spare. I must say, it was wonderful . . . not so wonderful as my last experience there, but I probably can't ask for something like that to happen more than once. Anyway, I spent about five hours walking through the museums, one hour of which was a docent-guided tour of the Impressionists. Even though I love Impressionism, the highlight of the tour was not the images themselves, but the paper and the techniques used to make the prints (for we did not look at actual paintings until later). We had discussed etchings, woodcuts, and lithography in my "History of the Book" class, and I enjoyed getting to see the differences between the techniques. The absolute best thing, though, was the laid paper! First, I read one print was a lithograph on wove paper, and it struck a bell, but I didn't think anything of it. Then, I saw an etching on laid paper . . . I got close, probably far closer than the curators would have preferred, and yes, I saw the chain lines. Very exciting, very exciting indeed. The more I learn, the more I find I enjoy art on many levels. 'Tis a beautiful thing.

Good news for all you vegetarians!

I always knew chocolate was a wonderful thing! According to this wrapper, created sometime between 1893 and 1930, chocolate is "more sustaining than meat." I really want to believe that statement. My thanks to the Library of Congress's American Memory Project and to Duke University for providing this image.

Remembered melodies

As I walked home from campus this evening, a wonderful sound greeted my ears. It wasn't at all well executed, and it couldn't really even be called pretty, but it was a sound I recognized and one that I love. Someone in one of the houses along my street, a child perhaps, is trying to master the intricacies of the violin. It is certainly not an easy instrument to subdue, and I'm sure I probably sounded just as horrible when I first began playing. And now it has been so long since I've plied my hand at a bow that I would probably sound just like this unseen player, my violin screeching as my once-trained hands move over the strings with uncertainty. I know just where my violin sets. It is in my bedroom at my parents' house, in the far right corner as I walk through the door. Finding my music could prove more tricky, but I think I'll look for it when I go home in a few weeks. My playing may not start out pretty, but that's ok; I don't expect immediate success. I would like to believe, however, that with a little practice and perhaps with some measure of training, I will be able to make the strings tremble and sing for me once again.

Happy Easter

Ah, and what a beautiful day for an Easter celebration. The children were dressed in their finest suits and their frilliest dresses complete, of course, with the little white gloves that I remember wearing on Easter Sundays when I was small. Even the birds seemed to be singing with exceptional gusto this morning. All is not perfect, though, for now I've returned to an empty home. This is my first holiday spent apart from my family and even my housemates are out somewhere, leaving me to solitude and a day of writing papers. I won't let this sadden me, though, because yesterday I sneaked out of the house with my camera and photographed some of the so-beautiful flowers around my neighborhood after mostly finishing my longest paper of the semester. My window is open, the birds are still calling back and forth to one another, and perhaps the sun will shine a little more brightly on me this afternoon.

My signifiers do not match my signifieds

I'm at an odd time in my life, and have been for a few years, where I don't know what to call myself. Technically I'm an adult. I have been for a good five years now. I'm still in school, though, and even though it is graduate school and I'm working toward a master's degree, it doesn't seem as though anything has significantly changed for me. Up until recently I've been easily classified as a girl, and I'm fine with that. In the past few years, however, people, particularly professors, have used the word "woman" when discussing me or other females of my age. This sounds incredibly strange to me. I'm not a woman; I'm a girl . . . I've always been a girl. Somehow things changed when I wasn't paying attention.

It is no better with males, by the way. When I was dating one recently, I couldn't refer to him as a boy for that would have given me only strange looks and hairy eyeballs. Of course, I couldn't call him a man either. Men are something like thirty-five years old, right? So now what? I was reduced to referring to him "this guy I'm seeing." Hmm . . . that's just no good.

There really needs to be words for people in this awkward time of life. Yes, yes, there is always the option of throwing "young" in front of man or woman, but that is not entirely satisfactory either. Ah, what do we do when our language fails us?

There goes the neighborhood . . .

Today I decided to walk home the short way. I generally walk home by the longer, less steep path, but the beauty of the day enticed me to take a different route this afternoon. The sun warmed my skin, which it hadn't done for far too long, as I started the trek up to the top of my little mountain. Before I made it very far, I spotted little drops of sunshine dotting the grass. I've always loved Dandelions, so I couldn't help but pick one. I carried it most of the way home, and while doing so I took time to look at it, I mean to really look at it. My Dandelion was imperfect. The little petals were ragged and so did not make a nice circle. I thought to pick another, but the more I looked at mine, the more I realized just how lovely it was. Tiny yellow spears stuck out in all directions and its happy color reminded me of Wordsworth, though, of course, he wrote of a much more acceptable flower. It is a shame that the Dandelion should be so underappreciated. I agree very much with the landscaper, who I once heard say that a weed is merely a misplaced flower. I suppose people hate Dandelions so much because they cannot control them; they start bright and cheerful, grow old, and spread their aged hair across the land. Suddenly a well-manicured lawn is faced with the intrusion of nature, and people cannot, will not, have it. We want no nature in our yards. All the same, I'll happily be the downfall of the neighborhood if only to have my beautiful little weeds.

Thus begins a new journey

So now I have joined the world of the bloggers . . . it's not too scary thus far. I fear that I have nothing brilliant nor even anything terribly witty to share with you here today. But you will forgive me for that, I hope. In time I will find more to discuss with the world, but for now just rest assured in the knowledge that I'm joining the already overwhelming ranks of those who post their most personal thoughts to be read by a few trusted friends and random passers by. Now, at last, I have finished with this brief excursion. Perhaps you will breathe a sigh of relief that I've finally ended this rambling, or perhaps you will linger over my words and wish there were but more. Either way, my dear reader, adieu.